You inherited roots
You moulded yourself
A man comfortable in his company
You live on an estate separated by geography
This is where you come back.

There is a room at the end of a corridor
Where the family, the staff don’t go
You go – when it calls
Outside is a small table
On the table you leave your well stitched jacket, watch and shoes
You enter.

The room looks as if it was forgotten by the maker
Bare walls, bare floor, colder, and a bulb playing with shadows
A wooden chair
You sit there
Away from whom you left on the table
And the thoughts once again run through you
Anxieties, wins, faces – a kaleidoscope of memories
And you go back to the place from it began
When you walked the back lanes of downtown – doing odd jobs for restaurants
Where the cars had more chrome than factories
And before that
When you saw the world from the window – of the one room ‘home’
One side was the family of five and hot pot on the stove and the other side the calling of the unknown
And before that
When memory had not begun and the void spoke to you in a language that needed no words.

Time to go back
You open the door, wear your what you left out
And walk down the corridor – clearer than ever
You call it the room
The rest call it The Chamber
They see it from the outside; you know it from the inside.